Last Night
by MsJadey
Summary: The aftermath, the morning after for Sanosuke and Saitou. Contains "Close Your Eyes" and "Hold On." non-graphic malexmale
1. Close Your Eyes

**Title:** Last Night: "Close Your Eyes" and "Hold On"

**Author:** MsJadey

**E-mail:** slashingmsjadey@hotmail.com

**Archive:** SaiSa, so far.  Anyone else: you want it, you ask, and you got it.

**Rating:** R

**Warnings:** sexuality, possible non-con, language

**Summary:** Two sides of the same morning, from two different perspectives.

**Disclaimer:** It all belongs to Watsuki-sensei; I hope he never finds out what I've done to his boys.

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**Author's Note** (not essential and sometimes weepy):

You may remember "Close YourEyes" from the first time it was posted a while ago.  I have made a few alterations to it since (mostly working out tense errors and awkward sentences), but it's basically the same fic.  However, the idea has moved far beyond a single one-shot.  Beyond two one-shots actually.  The whole _Last Night_ couplet has become the prequel to another fic, _Red Sky at Morning_, which will show up only after Dreaming and another fic, Suppress It (humour this time; the prologue has been posted at sanas_yl, and possibly the SxSAS as well, but I can't remember), are done.  Red Sky is going to run for several chapters (more than five, less than ten, I think) and will definitely conclude the story started in _Last Night_.

"Hold On" is the new fic, the companion to Eyes.  As promised, it is Sano's versions of the events.  Hold On has a significantly less satisfying ending than Eyes (not that Eyes was very satisfying either), which is why I mentioned the continuation series above.  I have been working on it for a while, and I think it's about the best thing I've written so far (which is why I spent a week being depressed because it wasn't perfect T_T).

I had a ton of help with it, as well as with Eyes, and I'd like to give a huge hug to my six (count 'em, six!) beta readers.  Sabina: for _hating _my writing style and RK, but beta-ing anyway.  Erica: for being one of the only two betas who actually knew the series.  Melanie: for beta-ing on the toilet.  Ray: for writing more jokes than actual corrections.  Jacqui: for being late with perfect timing.  And Amy: for making me her grammar bitch.

Also, a great honour has been bestowed upon me by the lovely Yomegane Kenosuke (the_fenril_knight)--she's adapted Last Night into a doujinshi!  Starting with Sanosuke's actions after waking up abandoned, she follows him until he finds Saitou, and then illustrates (okay, bad pun) what ensues.  It isn't exactly what I have planned to happen in _Red Sky at Morning_, but the her interpretation and extrapolation is just as likely and definitely entertaining and interesting, just as I hope Red Sky will be.  Plus, the artwork is absolutely spectacular!  For a first-time doujinshika, Keno-kun does a kickass, professional-type job.  ^_^  

Check out Keno's doujin, _Stay Away_, at Queen Yokozuna'a SaiSa archive: 

(It's listed under my name, not Keno's pseudonym.)

Lege!

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Close Your Eyes

Warnings: sexuality, possible non-con

Summary: A "morning after" one-shot in Saitou POV

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Regrets and retrospect should not precede coffee and a cigarette.__

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   I wake to gentle snoring.  The sky is dark, but dawn threatens to appear.  I am aware of the warm body curled beside me.  One of his legs drapes over both of mine, and my body is slumped against him, an arm around his shoulders.  His hair tickles my nose.  I can feel the warmth of his hands on my chest, and I find myself moving to kiss him.

   He stirs, rolls over, and continues to sleep.

   His right wrist is bared, lying beside his head, and the position makes him look like a young child.  I hesitate.  What have I done?

   I carefully lift my arm.  If he wakes, it will make the situation worse.  In the intensity of last night, I didn't stop to question myself, and I realize with horror how much my control slipped--beyond slipped.  It was completely shattered and discarded for the touch of this boy.

   His honest company was supposed to be my reward, a well-earned respite from dealing with scum on the streets and scum in the government.  To sit in a tavern with him and just talk was an innocent rest.  I enjoyed listening to his stories of life as a no-good bum, tales of odd jobs, exaggerated fights, interesting people, rescued kitties, and games of chance.

   He welcomed my presence as well.  I assume it was the sake that made him amiable toward an old antagonist, or the chance to reminisce about the greatest adventures of his short life with someone who had been there, had seen it.

   I wasn't surprised that he'd left Tokyo.  Unlike Himura, his life is far from over.  He may never find greater battles than those against Shishio and Enishi, but he has decades left in which to try.  Yes, he showed sense in leaving that old dojo, but the price on his head must have been a factor.  Trust this moron to piss of a powerful and corrupt politician like that worthless Tani.

   It was strange; he never seemed worried that I would arrest him, either too naïve or too drunk to recognize danger, as has always been his way.  And even knowing this, I took advantage of him.

   It was not my intention when I had first noticed him in the tavern, chatting up a young waitress.  I was sitting back in the shadows, waiting for a very overdue contact.  When it became apparent that I'd been stood up, I decided to sit with the boy, for entertainment's sake.

   It was my tragic error, a moment of weakness in which I allowed loneliness to overcome control.

   Our conversation carried on past midnight, and though I consumed no alcohol, the mere atmosphere of the place wore at my indifference, as did his sweet, low voice.  I remained aloof, not letting myself fall to his level of ribaldry, but his earnestness and rough charm began to appeal to me.  His attractive face took on new meaning.

   As the moon rose outside, it became difficult to remain condescending and detached.  My distraction grew until I found myself staring at his lips and stroking the knuckles of his hand.

   Lying beside him now, I could try to pass my actions off and excuse my weakness.  Blame the fatigue of a sleepless week, the stress of a deliberately large caseload, or the weight of five years self-imposed sexual abstinence.  But I have regained my composure; I will not wash this over, I must acknowledge my failure.

   His hand wasn't soft, not with the fighter's life he'd led.  But--with the exception of the blood of the wicked--it was the warmest thing I'd touched in a long time.  I remember his eyes widening and words slowing as he realized my movements.  Then he stopped talking altogether and leaned forward, brown eyes bright with drunkenness and lips slightly pursed.  He'd intended to kiss me in a public tavern.  Impetuous child.  I stopped him, my hand spread across his bare chest, feeling his heartbeat and quickened breath.

   I wasn't the only one in lust last night, but he was without judgment.  It was my responsibility to correct him.

   I failed.  I told him "not here" in response to his foolishness.  I didn't laugh at him, smack him, or cease my actions.  I didn't tell him no, never, to go away, or to stop looking at me.  I said "not here," and watched as the words registered for him.

   He sat back slowly, staring at me.  Then, flashing a goofy smile, he jumped up from the table, nearly tripping on legs sore from time spent sitting, and left the tavern.  I waited a few seconds, understanding his conclusion, but not reacting.

   What were my intentions as I stretched my own cramped legs, tossed a bit of money on the table, and followed him?  Did I mean to finally say "no," and send him home to sleep it off?  Or had I abandoned my very last pretense of self-control to the tidal wave of hunger unleashed in me?  None of that mattered when I stepped into the street and his warm arms.

   He tried to kiss me again, but it was still too public for my tastes.  Instead, I ran fingers through his soft hair, pulled his ear to my mouth, and commanded him to lead us to an appropriate place, whichever inn he was staying at.

   He would have run in eagerness if he weren't stumbling in drunkenness, pulling me by the hand.  I revelled in his immature exuberance and beauty, allowing it to become my own.  And once in the room, I took all that innocent beauty and crushed it to the wall, kissing and bruising it with all the force I could muster.

   If I could meet the man I was last night, I would kill him out of sheer disgust.

   How many times before did I abuse this child's body, always keeping in mind his limits, never pushing him much farther than he could go.  Last night I didn't bother, taking what I wanted from an innocent who couldn't defend himself from my appetite.

   Never once did he struggle, though.  That was the worst part of my transgression.  That I stole, not from one who tried to fight back, forcing me to acknowledge my crime, but from a boy who didn't even know what he did or did not want.  It allowed me to pretend that I was what he wanted.

   The sun is finally rising, and I remove myself from his side.  As I dress, I observe every part of his body so that the image remains in my mind as evidence of the danger of weakness, of what can happen when I forget myself.

   I am sickened.  Himura, who is only the shadow of a man, would look down upon me now.  I must rise against this.

   As his body shifts in slumber, I memorize the fingerprint bruises on his neck, chin, and hips, the broken, bleeding, and still swollen lower lip, and the scraped elbow from when I threw him to the floor.  I preserve in my mind every scratch made by my fingernails as I tore his clothes off, and even the ugly bite mark on his shoulder.

   On my body, I can feel his own marks, but they are petty.  They will fade too quickly to serve as reminders of my shame, but I refuse to rely on external sources for reprimand anyway.  Last night proves that the slightest laziness or lapse in vigilance is inexcusable.  And I alone am equipped to control myself.

   There will be no more lapses, no stress, no loneliness, and no desires of the flesh.  The boy was a regrettable mistake, but I cannot reverse it, only prevent its reoccurrence.  I will not go near him again.  He may try to thwart my intentions, but his predictable, unsubtle behavior should make avoiding him simple.

   Fully dressed, I smooth the wrinkles my hakama gained from spending the night on the floor, and remember first approaching him, and how he recognized my preferred undercover disguise and laughed.  Only this moron would reminisce fondly about grave injuries.  I don't regret inflicting those particular wounds, though; he should have stayed down.

   Will he relent now?  It was difficult enough to turn away Tokio after we fulfilled our duties as husband and wife.  But she was sensible and eventually learned to be the proper wife, to raise our sons to serve their country.  This is the only use I have for her; the memory of her warm touch haunts me no longer.

   This child sleeping at my feet is a greater danger to me.  His fierce spirit has invaded me like her gentle one never could.  Yesterday morning, and all the time before, I never gave a thought to him.  Now, I cannot stop agonizing over him.  I doubt he realizes his ability to attach himself to anyone who gives the slightest opening, likely a leftover reaction from his childhood of abandonment.

   Irritatingly, even with the shame of last night hanging in this room, his face provides temptation.  I would kill him if I could detect the slightest justification, but what he so boldly branded on his back is only another of his foolish misconceptions.  There must be another solution.

   If I can't remove him from the physical world, I require time to eradicate him mentally.  Withdrawing won't be difficult; I can easily retreat to where this infantile outlaw can never follow.  His memory and scent will be harder to elude, but I can overwhelm them with the preserved sight of his ravaged body.  

   I will leave him here; the room is paid.  With any luck at all, he will get lost on his way out of town and end up in America, far away from me, so I may peacefully eliminate his traces from my skin and soul.

   As for his eyes, which never looked on me with fear, no matter what liberties I took with his body, and the lips that kissed my cheek softly after I raped him--I would like to tear them out of his face as a testament to the danger of reckless affection. 

   This is why I prefer to contend with the evil, rather than the pure.

   Turning, stepping over a pile of shredded bandages, I leave the room.  Sliding the door shut, I don't look back.  I have seen enough of his sleepy smiles.

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**Feedback:** Is it confusing in flow, language, or meaning?  Are you getting a clear image of the scenes and events?  What do you think of this particular characterization of Saitou?  How do you like the ending?  Are you interested in seeing where this all goes?


	2. Hold On

Hold On

Warnings: sexuality, language

Summary: A "morning after" one-shot in Sanosuke POV

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To lose a game of chance, wager more than either player can afford.

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   I crack my eyelids open wide enough for my eyes to hurt, which doesn't take much.  I close them quickly so that I don't go blind.

   Morning is nice and all, sunlight and chirping birds and breakfast, but it's murder for a hangover.  No matter how long I wait, it's always too bright when I get up.

   Actually, my headache isn't too bad, even though I drank plenty last night.  It must have been less than usual.  But I don't really care, because sun or not, this is a pretty good morning.

   Last night was even better.  I wasn't sure if it would be worth it, but now that it's over, I feel like it really worked out.  The sex wasn't half-bad either, though definitely a one-time experience.  I chuckle and reach out with my arm to knock him awake.

   He's not there.

   I open my eyes and sit up.  My clothing is in a pile by the door, and the blanket--we never even used it--is in its own pile by the opposite wall.  He's gone, he left me, but it's impossible to tell he was here in the first place.  There's barely a dent on the pillow, much less a note or an excuse.  The least he could have done was tip me.

   I throw myself back down onto the bed with my eyes and cheeks burning.  He would do something like that--treat me like a whore, or worse: nothing at all.  One more way to show me how fucking worthless I am to him.  Except I'm not--he proved last night that I mean something.

   It was last night that I ran into him, in a rundown tavern.  It wasn't expected; I'd just been looking to get drunk in private, maybe have a little fun with the cute serving girl.  When he appeared out of the shadows, playing up the dark and mysterious angle, it was almost surreal.

   I laughed at his outfit, the infamous pharmacist get-up that hid a master swordsman.  Even funnier was the way he was careful to hide his calluses.  I'd figured he wanted to arrest me on the bogus charge I was still dodging, so I asked him to sit down and join me for a drink.  I thought it would throw him off, but there wasn't a reaction.  Same old bastard.  I should have known I couldn't get one up on him.

   I definitely know now.  I'd thought I could beat him at his own game, give myself a victory by trapping him with his own actions, his word even, but apparently vows don't count for useless street punks.

   I don't even know why I was stupid enough to take the chance in the first place.  I think it was because he acted so strangely, still arrogant and condescending but not in the usual way--more distant and weary.  I tried to get a rise out of him by jabbering on about nothing in particular, but he barely reacted at all except for the automatic name-calling.  There was tiredness at the edges of his eyes that made me angry.  He wasn't supposed to be old or weak; I knew the real man was still under the surface, ignoring me.  I wanted to push him, to see a spark of anger, malice, or amusement escape his control, but nothing worked.

   Late into the night he stopped talking altogether, just stared blankly ahead and touched my hand.  I probably should have figured it out right away, just from that, but it wasn't something I'd been anticipating and I was distracted, trying to get him to fight.  On my way to being very drunk, too.  But suddenly, through my buzz, I finally understood why he had approached me, what his hand on mine meant.

   I was shocked, thrown off balance--I hadn't ever thought of him that way, or dreamed he would think of me that way.  Aside from one brief experiment years ago, and what I gathered from rumours and common sense, I knew nothing about sex with a man and didn't care to.

   But my mind began presenting me with the possibilities.  Getting a reaction from him was one thing, but a plan was forming in my head that could get me a lot more.  The idea was very risky and a little distasteful, but he's not too ugly--his eyes are actually sexy in a very creepy way--and the alcohol strengthened my nerve.  I knew if everything worked out right, he wouldn't ever be able to look down on me again without making a fool of himself for desiring me.

   I was excited, curious, confused, and very nervous as I tried to kiss him.  When he pushed me back before I could reach him, I was instantly worried my instincts had screwed up and I'd made a complete ass of myself.  Then he mumbled his first words in over an hour.  "Not here."

   I could have taken those words as an absolute no; I was baring my throat to get at his vulnerability, and I'd already felt one sharp nip.  I couldn't back down, though.  Aside from showing him his weakness, I wanted-- needed to know how far the weakness went, how much he wanted me.

   I got up from the table.  If he didn't want it there, I'd find somewhere else to override his restraint, take away his security blanket of control, and give him what he'd never admitted he wanted until last night.  Lost in those thoughts, I nearly fell flat on my face when I stood up on numb legs.

   But I made it outside and waited thirty torturously long seconds.  I was so tense that when he exited the tavern and walked towards me, I actually grabbed him to make sure he wouldn't leave.

   I tried to kiss him again too.  He wouldn't let me, but he did hold me tightly and run his fingers through my hair.  I was afraid for a bit, faced with the reality of his desire, but I reminded myself I could handle whatever he wanted to dish out.  I wasn't about to underestimate myself or give in to fear.

   He wanted me to take him to the inn where I was staying, so I practically dragged him through the streets, fed up with doubts and anticipation.

   I'd been worrying what I would do when we got there, but it was all out of my hands; he did what he wanted and I went along for the ride.  All I really remember is hands, slickness, and pressure.

   I think we were both done quickly, but it might have happened twice--I can't say for sure.  The details don't really matter, though.  It wasn't the best I'd had and his breath was terrible, but I was certain I'd reached my goal when he didn't try to take off as soon as we finished.

   After I caught my breath, I made him promise he wouldn't disappear in the morning.  I needed to be certain he wouldn't be able to run off and pretend I never happened.  Getting him to succumb was only the first part; I needed him to acknowledge it too.  He mumbled a quiet "all right" before tucking his face into my neck and drifting off.

   Angry that I could be so fucking stupid and he could be so fucking cold, I sit up, unable to get back to sleep.  I thought his word would be enough, but it obviously wasn't.

   I didn't want him to stay forever; I'm not pining for a meaningful relationship.  Even though the sex wasn't horrible, I'm not gay.  I slept with him to prove to a point: he's not better than me, not when he was the one who wanted to fuck in the first place.  He was supposed to understand that--meet me face to face, man to man.  Instead, I was left behind, like a whore, as all my hard work falls apart.

   I know what happened this morning.  He woke up and understood everything.  He realized he's not perfect, I'm not irrelevant, and the world isn't under his complete control because his control isn't complete.  Then he walked out like the arrogant coward he is.

   Or, he woke up, gloated to himself about his newest conquest, sneered at my eagerness to let him bed me, forgot about his own show of weakness, and walked out like the sadistic bastard he is.

   I get out of bed.  It doesn't make any sense to stay there, waiting like an idiot for him to come back.  Stretching sore limbs, I stalk across the room to my clothing.  Moving hurts; my body feels like I was attacked by forty bandits, none afraid to use their teeth.

   It's not surprising that he was so violent.  A man like him, forced to restrain his aggressive nature in polite society, is bound to be a vicious fighter and lover.  Last night's activities were fast and brutal, leaving scrapes, bruises, and little cuts all over me, including slivers in my elbow.  He even bit me.  The marks don't hurt too much--I've had worse--but I'm pissed off that he managed to leave so many of them, like he fucking owns me, even though he doesn't want me.  I can remember thinking the same thing about the scar on my shoulder.  He doesn't seem to understand that he can't keep doing things like this to me if he won't let me forget it, or if he forgets it himself.  He's still underestimating my ability to fight back.

   I never asked for him in my life, and I don't want him to stay in it.  He ridicules me, uses me, ignores me, hurts my friends, and walks away from it all over and over again, like the laws of man don't apply to him because he is the law of man.  Like he's above it all.

   He doesn't get to walk away this time.  I won't roll over for him or let it slide, because that would mean he really does own me.  This was his fuck-up, not mine, and I don't have to pay for it.  I understand gambling, and I gambled, but I understand cheating too, and he cheated.

   So I'm going to find him and make him remember every detail of last night.  I'll show him every damn bruise on my body if I have to, and denounce him in public if it comes to it.  I'll tell the world about his weakness, and how he tried to run from it, make his failing into mine.  He might kill me after, but I'm going to finish this fight, and I'll be damned if I'm going to lose.

   I've got no idea where he is right now, but Japan isn't that big, and I've got time.  And when I do find the bastard, he's going to be the one that walks away changed.

   Pulling on my jacket, I leave the room without hesitation, making a mental note to find more bandages.  In my mind, I can see his condescending smirk.  I ache to knock its teeth out.

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**Feedback:** Was it what you were expecting?  Do you think Sanosuke reacted in a likely way?  Does this change your interpretation of the events in "Close Your Eyes"?  What do you think of the pacing?  Do you sympathize more with Sanosuke or Saitou?


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